we need to let go and go with our children

She wanted to run right to the end. Her little hand tugged and tugged at her mother to let her go. The mother was afraid, afraid of the freedom the child longed for.  It was the open space that worried her most, not being able to always to be sure of the boundaries.  Her mind was always full of what might happen and that ‘might’ always ended in disaster. Improbable disaster her intellect said, but her heart didn’t agree.

She turned her attention to the child hoping to distract her. Then on a sudden  spur of the moment thought she let go of her daughter’s hand and ran with her down the length of the pier and into the summer’s day.

just a bit of writing!

“1852 was the year when it happened, a mountain top experience that would give a dull life a purpose and a delight.

They had slowly made their way to the top, wanting to see the view in winter that they had so often seen in summer, a view covered now in a fine layer of snow.

With gloved hands pulling and helping each other, they had made it and were standing looking at the valleys and peaks as far as the eye could see.

It was then the perfect moment came. He lifted the small box from his pocket. She blushed as she realized what this moment would be. After a moment of perfect joy in each other, they shouted their joy. They shouted it from the mountain tops making it echo valley after valley after valley.”

The group of students erupted with mirth, the clichéd tale not lost on them. ‘A good attempt,’ they said!

It was lunchtime, we were at Writers’ Club. The deal had been to select random settings and weave a story around them. A few minutes of writing to come up with something. I didn’t usually get involved. I usually sat back and ate my lunch while the students wrote. But today I was in the mood to have a go.

There’s something extra special about writing with others. Sharing some fun, playing around, learning to enjoy the gift of writing from God. It’s in learning to let go that we gain so much.  My writing has been so blessed, so enriched, so pulled down to the level of reality by students who have listened and critiqued and encouraged me. Writers need friends who tell it like it is and I’ve had them – dozens of students who have humbled me by their writing, and oh so gently encouraged mine.

At home it has been my own children who have made me feel that I’m a writer, who have shared their writing with me and encouraged me to keep going.

Find people in your life who will encourage your gift, who will support your sometimes stumbling steps to ‘have a go’. When all is done, just ‘have a go’, have fun. Find more of God in the joy of being who He created you to be.

A story about nothing and everything.

The days are beginning to change. Setting on the verandah of the beach house, a picture  postcard sunset in front of me. I don’t see it. I don’t see it, don’t accept the changes that are happening. Just as days turns to evening, to night; the changes are happening all around me.

These September days I have come to the beach house, to sit, to think, to clarify, to wonder what in the world is in store.

Yet I find myself, instead, just sitting, gazing, keeping thoughts at bay.

She was such a good friend – is such a good friend – will always be a good friend.

The sun sets over the sea with a spectacular finale, and darkness begins to envelop me.. I shiver at life. Its turns and twists can surprise one moment and totally confuse me the next.

My mind lives in the past and the future so often caught between the what might have been and the what could be. This is the place  come to to sit in the present, to capture the minutes and hours of time being lived.

I stand and gather my things – a book, a journal, a pen – things to keep me from the present. As I enter the soft glow of the living room its aloneness tugs at me, inviting me to sit awhile in its intimacy. To enjoy the now, not as an escape but as a reason to be alive.

My thoughts turn to yesterday, the news, the reality of change. Quickly I refocus. There is an evening ahead, not to get through but to enjoy. Decisions t be made about the now. A glass of wine, music, a crossword puzzle, the lapping waves.

The enjoyment of now in the face of change.

I am a Writer!
For as long as I can remember I have written. First it was stories, then poems, now a mix, and always letters and later journal entries. I can't remember a time when I didn't write although there must have been a time!
I'm pretty sure I was already story writing when I started Kindergarten and I can remember sitting at home writing long tales in Year 1. I can remember reading these stories to my sister who always made me feel like she wanted to listen. She was a lot older than I was and wrote amazing children's fairy tales - I still have some of them in her handwriting! I suppose she was the person who encouraged me to write.
However, after finishing Primary School where I always came first in Story Writing, I arrived in High School believing I was not creative and continued to think this for many years. I had never thought of this before, but, my sister died when I was in Year 7. I guess I then had no one to encourage my writing.
During those 'non-creative' years, my writing took the form of essays, letters and later journal entries. I may not have been writing fiction then but I was making up story after story in my imagination. In fact, I had a whole world in my head of people and places, events and adventures. Those stories were only for me, after all I was not creative enough to write them down for others to read.
Sometimes people would say how much they enjoyed my interesting letters - I thought they were just being kind to uncreative me. I started keeping a journal when I was in my 20s but at that time it was rather dull recording events and feelings as minimally as possible - I knew I wasn't a writer.
Quite suddenly, for no apparent reason it all changed. I was sitting on a hill in the Chiltens, just outside of London, when I wrote the first poem I can ever remember writing. I had been going through a difficult time trying to make some decisions about the future, but that day I had just been thoroughly enjoying myself, walking with a friend, when at the end of a steep climb I had sat down for a rest and taken out my journal to record where we were, but instead wrote a poem.
After that the poems started to come slowly, when least expected and with no particular desire on my part to become a poet.
A few years after coming back from overseas I got a job in a school, teaching Secondary English (and History). In the first year the staff member who was running the annual Writers' Camp became ill quite suddenly and I heard myself saying, "I'll do it". Why I said I'd do it is not clear to me even now (obviously it was God's prompting), I think I felt a tug to again be involved in writing.
I had been reading and thinking and had begun to believe that as a child of the Supreme Creator I might just be creative! I had begun to learn that creativity came in all shapes and sizes and that everyone was creative in some way.
Thus began my numerous years of running writers' camps and encouraging others to write creatively. I seemed to intuitively know how to help others write and as time went on I re-discovered my own voice as a creative writer both in poetry and in prose.
Now I write almost every day and feel able to call myself a writer and a poet. However, I still struggle with thinking of myself as good. By that I mean, good enough for others to want to read it. I am very adept at brushing off anyone telling me my writing is good.
This is my challenge. I started writing this blog thinking I would write regularly but then decided no one would really want to read it so why bother. That was an excuse, a fear of still not believing I'm a real writer!! My challenge - to keep writing regardless!
Vicki